The Mountains

The apartment has remained the same over the last few years. No more moving or changing things. The off-white walls hold old paintings of hunting dogs and hilly scenes. The small living room and dining room are all visible when the three of them walk in. Veering right, they see the kitchen where up to three people could stand together to prepare things. From the kitchen window, the courtyard is visible with clotheslines holding garments from the tenants that live in the three apartments that share the space. The cement walls feel cool to the touch, allowing some respite from the heat.

“Hola, mi Don!”

“Paco! How are you?”

“Very good!”

The women watch the two of them talk, and then Paco sits at the table and starts reading the newspaper. The smell of something cooking—cilantro, onions, and beef—permeates the air. They anticipate that it will not be great, food is not her specialty. She is very good at praying, washing, bossing kids around, and giving them remedies and colada drinks, but actual food… not really. Still, they love to visit the modest home. They know she loves them, and so does he.

He sits by the window, watching people walk to tables on the sidewalks and in nearby yards. Card games are being played, and laughter rings between the almond and palm trees. Cars pass by on the main road, some honking and others simply speeding by.

“Hello. How are you?” a young woman asks after sitting on the nearby couch. Her dark, thick hair falls below her shoulders, the heat making her cheeks slightly pink. Thank heavens for the nearby fan.

“I am very well,” he responds. “Have we met before?”

She shrugs. “We could be friends. I used to go to the mountains every school break. I heard you used to live up there.”

He studies her and something must make him think he can trust her because he smiles and speaks. “I did. The mountains are my favorite.”

“Really, why?”

“You can feel the fresh air, every chilled morning, and the smell of carnations and roses.”

“In the city of flowers and fruits?”

“Yes, my home. But there was more. I used to travel, knew all the bus routes, and long before that, I used to go by horse or donkey. Visited every big and small town within two hours to sell merchandise to the corner stores and main markets.”

“Nice. When I was little, my grandpa used to take me to the big market in town. The 'espumilla' and market gossip were the best. Nothing like getting the ins and outs of the latest stall feuds,” she says with a wink.

He laughs. “Gossip is great, but that meringue cream gets too sweet sometimes. It’ll rot your teeth.”

“So I hear,” she says with a small smile, showing her perfectly straight and white teeth.

“Was that your favorite part of the mountains?” he asks.

“No. In terms of a place… I guess my favorite part was my grandparents’ house and the school next to it. It was an all-girls elementary that used to have this line of huge stones where we could sit. My grandfather would take me for walks then we’d sit on those stones and bask in the sun. He said the Indigenous merchants told him that the Sun God blesses those who bask in its power on this land. It felt real.”

“I’ve heard about that, beautiful beliefs.”

“Yeah. He was my favorite person. He’d pull out the Bible every night and use it as my bedtime story. It made me love to read.”

“What’s your favorite parable?” he asks.

“It used to be the Tower of Babel. But now it’s the one where Jesus saves the adulterous woman from being stoned.”

“To seek compassion over judgment is a good lesson. Do you still read the scripture?” he asks.

“Not too much. But I love to read books and poems. Pablo Neruda and Gabriela Mistral are my favorites.”

“That’s good, but you should read the book again. I wish I could go to church.”

“I’ll talk to Paco and ask him to take you,” she says.

“Him, yes! Can I tell you a secret?”

“Please do.”

“You won’t tell anyone.”

“No I won't, I promise.”

He sees the sincerity in her brown eyes, but still he has to ask. “Not even the she-devil?”

“I won’t tell, not even her,” she whispers conspiratorially, looking in the direction of the dark-skinned woman with curly hair and a frantic demeanor.

“Alright I’ll tell you. I love him. He makes me laugh and stops by at least once a week to take me to get ice cream.”

“He does? What flavor do you two get?” she asks.

“I get neapolitan and he gets vanilla. It’s the best thing about living down here in the heat, always the perfect time for ice cream.”

“That’s true. Up in the mountains ice cream only works on the warm days.”

He nods in agreement. “But you get to drink tea and warm milk, sometimes when business was good we’d even get chocolate.” He smiles. “A hot drink in the cold and being all bundled up… perfect.”

“Sounds amazing. I loved my ponchos and hats when I was little.”

“I had a hat…” he says wistfully. “I did! A black Trilby that was with me for over thirty years.”

“Wow. A classic.”

“Yeah.”

They stay silent for a couple of minutes, basking in the easy rapport and watching the cartoons on the television.

“You said you loved your grandparents’ house. What was special about it?” he asks.

“Everything... that house was so old and beautiful, from colonial times. The main area was all wooden floors and adobe walls covered with wallpaper. Grandma would throw a fit when us kids would dig through the wallpaper and get the dirt to fall off it. ‘You’re breaking the house!’” the girl says, scrunching her face and squaring her shoulders.

They laugh and then she continues.

“There were only two bedrooms, a small one for my grandparents and a huge one with like six beds for all their kids and the grandkids. We’d squeeze in there like sardines but sometimes a mattress would spill into the living room and dining room for visitors. The kitchen and bathrooms were separate small buildings around the courtyard. We knew to go to the bathroom before bed because going outside in the middle of the cold night was so not happening.”

“That’s old school.”

“I know, right? But I loved it. Me and some of our second cousins used to climb the stone side fence to spy on the next door neighbor. She was a witch and had a massive cauldron to cook children.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’m not! The neighbor witch was one of the pillars of my childhood, a true legend.”

“You’re telling me your grandparents’ neighbor murdered children?”

“Fine. It turned out that she made massive amounts of ‘fritada’ and sold it at the market. The cauldron was really just a huge pot she kept in the middle of the courtyard where she burned coal and cooked the pork meat. But come on! Our story was way better. We were terrified she’d catch us spying and throw us in there with some seasonings.”

He’s laughing. “Darn kids come up with the wildest things. Scared the neighbor would cook you.”

“Well, what are you scared of?”

“Her,” he says, pointing to the woman setting the table and bringing bowls filled to the rim.

“Mrs. López?”

“The she-devil. She is always watching… and she tries to poison me,” he whispers, hoping for a rescuer.

“Poison? Truly? I think she’s just serving soup, a good old caldo.”

“Caldo? No, it’s poison.”

She laughs. “It’s not poison. It’s beef caldo with fried fritters.”

He shakes his head no.

“It is. I promise. I’ve seen it made and well… I won’t promise it’ll be good because she’s not a very good cook, but it could be worse.”

“Worse? How? Everything the she-devil gives me is poison.”

“It could be my grandfather’s beef and fritter caldo… way worse.”

“Worse than she-devil’s? Not possible.”

“Oh yeah, let me tell you. My grandfather married a woman with questionable cooking skills, kinda like her,” she says, pointing to the dark-skinned woman. “One day she got tired of hearing everyone whining about the food. She tossed a piece of paper with a recipe at him and said ‘Then you do it!’ He took the challenge and started cooking.”

“I bet it was better.”

She shakes her head and snickers. “He did everything right. Cut vegetables, made the base for the soup, and put the beef. The smell was incredible. He made the fritter mix and everything was going great. But the paper with the recipe fell into the burner and he couldn’t read all of it.”

“So what did he do?”

“He followed his instincts. It’s fritter soup, right? So he put the fritter mix into the soup.”

He starts cackling. “What a fool! True pendejo! You have to fry the dough first. Then you put the fritters in the soup at the end. I learned that when—” He looks at the young woman and she can tell the moment things begin to clear. His laughing ends and he gasps. “I put the mix in the soup and… it looked like vomit…”

A fog lifts from his eyes and he turns and stares at the dark-skinned woman with wide hips and graying hair. The one who always bosses people around, tells him to clean himself up, gives him his pills, and makes him get in the shower, get dressed, and eat her food. His eyes water with recognition, with love.

“She is not the devil, she’s… my wife.”

The girl smiles big. “Yes, she is.”

“Oh my God, mijita! Come here!” he exclaims, bringing his oldest granddaughter in for a hug. Hearing his loud call, the others in the house turn to them.

“Abuelo,” the young woman says as if she’s won the lottery, hugging him tight.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“I’m going to college in the United States. But I’m here for a few months.”

“Mi Don!” his son-in-law calls.

“Paco! Look who’s with us? She looks just like my Roberta. Going to college, can you believe it?”

“Yes I can. My girl is doing so well.”

“Papá?” The middle-age woman who looks like an older version of the girl he’s been talking to all afternoon runs to him.

“Mija!” he calls.

“I’ve missed you,” she says in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, mi Robertita. I should be hugging you every week when you come. I will try. I promise.”

“It’s alright daddy. The mind is a tricky thing.”

His wife comes by and kisses his forehead. He pulls her to him and hugs her waist. “I am so sorry.”

“You old fart, everything is just fine.” She disentangles from him and takes a deep breath. “Come and eat. Food is gonna get cold.”

Paco helps him get up and walk towards the table. At ninety four his mind and body play these games where nothing is easy or clear anymore. They sit and he says a prayer thanking God for this meal and his family. Then he takes a spoonful and smiles at the taste. His wife is not winning any cooking contests, but feeling the love around him gets him to eat like this is a feast… at least for a while.

“Poison! She’s poisoning me!” he yells halfway through the meal.

“I got him,” Paco says, moving to him.

He is the only one the old man recognizes and listens to—not his wife or his daughter or any of his grandchildren—just him. Within a couple of minutes, Paco gets his father in law to calm down, leaving him by the window at an angle where he could still watch the TV or focus on all the activity outside. So close and yet so far.

The young woman stands. Her grandmother looks at her. “Thank you. You got him to eat more than he has in days.”

She smiles. “Maybe he’ll still eat some more.”

She goes towards the couches and sits near him.

“Hello. How are you?”

“I am very well. Have we met before?”